


A Time to Change

by SnowStormSkies



Series: Growth and Change [2]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Tokio Hotel, Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: Cheating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flirting, M/M, Multi, Romance, Romantic Fluff, part of a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:24:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowStormSkies/pseuds/SnowStormSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Tommy’s twenty-four - just twenty-four, even if he still feels eighteen and really dumb inside sometimes - and he can’t believe exactly how much it’s changed, how far their dreams have taken both him and Adam. </i>
</p><p> And now, after six years of fighting their way to the top and staying there, post Idol, post tour, post the hardest fucking time their relationship's ever gone through, they're retreating to France, to a tiny village in the middle of Eden to try to find themselves again. Everything's amazing, until Tommy finds another lost and lonely teenager who's just like he used to be when he fled to London six years ago. </p><p>Tommy's grown up now. But everything's changing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Restart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [casey270](https://archiveofourown.org/users/casey270/gifts).



> Thanks so much to two very lovely people: 
> 
>  
> 
> casey270 for being my awesome beta, and plot bunny curator for this fic!
> 
> And qafmaniac for being my fabulous artist!
> 
>  
> 
> And here is her awesomesauce banner: 
> 
>  
> 
> "/>
> 
>  
> 
> This is the first part of a series, btw!

 

 

  
Chapter One:

Restart 

It’s a break, Adam calls it, declaring it to be so as soon as their plane lands in Paris. The wheels are still squealing on the tarmac, and Tommy’s still clutching the armrests as though they’re gonna save him, but Adam’s already way ahead of him, rubbing his hands together, making plans. If it’s a break, it’s the longest goddamn break Tommy’s ever been on.

_Eight weeks._

Eight fucking weeks of nothing but whatever they want to do, whenever they want to do it. No people, no lists, no fucking press, just Tommy and Adam, and when Sutan flies in tomorrow, some of him as well

Tommy knows what that means. He’s been fucking dreaming about it ever since Adam proposed it after yet another concert in the middle of a city Tommy didn’t know the name of, when they were half naked, sweaty, and so done after the concert that sex was a fucking dream, not a reality.

It means lazy morning cuddles _without_ half the band yelling at them to get out of fucking bed. It means walking through the streets holding hands and not giving one sweet fuck about paparazzi or people telling them it’s sick. And, yeah, Tommy Joe’s a sap. He fucking loves holding hands. It’s awesome. Adam’s got hands that are just right for holding. And now that they’re here, now that they’re in France, Tommy Joe can have as many public kisses, smooches, pecks, and all out fucking tongue dives as he likes, and he’s going to enjoy every goddamn second of every one of them.

He’s going to enjoy his mornings, waking up in Adam’s arms. He’s going to fucking enjoy sharing the double wide shower that Adam _specifically_ asked for. He’s gonna enjoy lazy dinners out on the balcony, waking up the sound of the ocean on the beach, and most of all?

He’s going to enjoy being _himself._

He’s tired of hiding away, and he’s tired of telling people to leave them alone, and he’s just plain tired. Tour has exhausted them both, and this is their time to recharge. To bring it back together, like it used to be before it all got so intense.

In front of them is eight long weeks, stretching out into the distance, where the only people they have to please are themselves.

Tommy’s got two years of having to share Adam with a talent show, and radio hosts, and tv presenters, and staff, and production managers, and the rest of the crew and band and dancers to make up for, and he’s gonna start as soon as they get off this fucking plane.

Ha.

They’re between tours at the moment – Adam’s just finished the North American leg of Glam Nation, and they’re waiting on starting the European leg soon.

Yeah.

That’s right.

A fucking _tour._

Tommy cannot believe it. He can’t. He can’t believe that Adam – pretty, dorky, special Adam – is touring across the fucking world, and that he’s brought Tommy along for the ride as well.

Admittedly, playing the bass was not how Tommy expected to sign up for a world wide tour, but hey. He’ll take what he can get, and bass is more than cool.

Adam didn’t win Idol – Tommy knows he could have, but the deck was stacked against him, and actually, it kinda turns out that getting second place is damn good anyway – but getting here, getting to this point has been so fucking amazing that nobody cares if Adam didn’t win. He’s got an album out, an honest to God album, and music videos and, hell, even a fucking interview with Rolling Stone magazine.

And Tommy is a fucking bunny rabbit if that snake slithering across Adam’s crotch on the front cover was just a _stylistic choice._

But, yeah. Adam. Tour. Fucking awesome, right?

It was what they dreamed about. It’s what they talked about together, while they were sharing a bed in London, while Tommy was on a plane back home and dreading seeing his parents after lying out  his ass to them.

And then everything kind of happened at once.

Tommy’s twenty-four - _just_ twenty-four, even if he still feels eighteen and really dumb inside sometimes - and he can’t believe exactly how much it’s changed, how far their dreams have taken both him and Adam.

It’s been intense. And hard. Adam went from being a Broadway performer, and Tommy from being a craptastic call center worker - seriously, he’s not pissed to leave that gig behind - who bounced from band to band between shifts, to being band member and hit single star darling of Hollywood.

It’s been stressful.

Three years ago, Adam hitched up on American Idol, on a whim and a prayer, and it’s never stopped since then.

So many people, so much travelling, cameras and fans and autographs... The whole experience has been really fucking testing on them too. Right from the beginning there was press managers and image consultants, and agents who were trying to convince Adam to drop Tommy, or to fake a relationship with someone else because Tommy wasn’t _exciting enough,_ he was _just a guitar player - (not even that, since they demoted him to bass),_ or he just wasn’t female enough.

That agent got dropped so fucking fast, he probably got whiplash.

Adam didn’t like the insinuation he needed to be straight or ‘faux bi’ as the agent had put it, and he _really_ didn’t like the insinuation that Adam needed someone better than _Tommy Joe motherfucking Ratliff_ when he so didn’t.

He’s not all Adam needs - he’s not that deluded, really - but he knows they’re good for each other, that the fates kind of moved things around just for them, and it’s not something he takes lightly.

So, yeah. Everything’s tried to drive a wedge between them, and while they haven’t succeeded... Tommy’s kinda hoping that these next few months will bring them back together, even stronger than before.

Nothing lots of sex can’t fix, right? Well. Good sex, and good talking. And good kissing.

Right now, they’re on this break on their own. Some people fucked off on their own holidays - Monte departed to Florida to meet his family, and Isaac left the day before that to go to Sophie’s parents place in wine county, Cali because, hey, if you’ve got the access… But on the whole, most of the band and the crew went home, back to their families and friends and to their own beds rather than the stank ass tour bus or the crappy hotel beds (or not so crappy, depending on how nice Mrs Tour Manager Lane was feeling that day), and Tommy understands that urge so fucking bad.

He missed his family something chronic when he was on tour. Even though he’s old enough to totally move out and live on his own, even though he’s old enough to have a real job (as a musician, not a fucking call center monkey) and shit, now that he’s bouncing around America and all, the old feelings are coming up to the surface. It didn’t hit at first - the beginning was maazing, and it felt so cool, and Adam felt like they were sitting on the top of the world, and Monte and LP, and Cam and the dancers, and Lane, and Tommy they were all making it happen for him.

But after the shiny wore off, and the new tour bus smell vanished under the smell of tour funk, and Tommy got sick of his prison bunk bolted to the wall… it started to hit home that he wouldn’t be _going_ home for weeks. They were going on tour for nine months, and this whole leg is four of them, across America.

And right now, it’s pretty strong, that feeling of homesickness. He wants to eat at his mom and dad’s house, go see his big sister with her new finance, and all that fucking shit that he tried to get out of when he was at home, prepping for the tour and rehearsing and shit.

But… he and Adam? This is their one chance to get away from it all, and you know, they’ve already said their goodbyes to family, and to friends before the whole tour started. A huge family dinner, with toasts, and presents, and hugs and kisses, and all the fucking tears that they’d all pretended didn’t exist, and a hangover just to cement the memory of it all with pain and nausea. They did the farewell party with more hugs and kisses, and even more drinking, and everything that a big send off was supposed to involve, and Tommy doesn’t know if he can do that all over again for the three month European leg. Being crammed into a bus, never getting a second to himself, always being on show for everybody and anybody.... it’s hard work.

He doesn’t like it, and he endures every fucking second when it’s bad, but the good parts - the screaming audiences that are screaming for _them,_ the laughter, the fun, the constant feeling of being with friends... those are the things he tries to cling to.

Tommy’s a private kind of guy  - always has been. He can’t give as much as everybody wants. Yet, he has to for Adam’s sake as well as his own.

He has to smile when he wants to run and hide, and he has to stand in front of cameras and shit when he feels so exposed, and so at odds with everything because that’s what the dream demands from him. The worst part, though, is the music. The instrument he has to play right now. Most days it’s okay, but sometimes, he has to play the bass when all he wants to do is rip the guitar out of Monte’s hands and tell him how to play alongside Adam _properly._

Yeah, he knows Monte’s got all that fucking experience and shit with big celebrities and training and he’s got mad skillz on the electric but… Tommy knows Adam’s voice. For the last six years, he’s lived with it, heard Adam sing, and laugh, and belt the tunes like nobody else on fucking earth. Tommy Joe fucking knows it inside out and back to front, and Monte sometimes doesn’t get it when Adam wants to do something, or he doesn’t think he needs something in the background. Or Monte has to take it to a more _commercial_ route even though it was fucking perfect before, and Tommy Joe doesn’t _like_ losing that magic edge to Adam’s voice.

He’s gotten used to biting his tongue. At least in public.

So’s Adam for that matter, and he’s just like Tommy; a really private kind of guy. Kinda. It’s weird. Tommy’s still learning those boundaries even now. Adam won’t strip off, he won’t even strip to the waist in public (neither will Tommy, but that’s beside the point), and he thinks holding hands in public is _intimate._ **But** on the other hand, he has no issue with giving his mic a blowjob, humping Tommy during his solo, making out with him so fucking much that they both have lipstick smeared all over both their faces by the end of the kiss.

It’s not something that’s really clear, though. These last few years have been really fucking challenging those boundaries, making them hazy and confusing again, so resetting their boundaries and finding themselves again sounds pretty damn good, never mind the extra space and lack of people.

Tommy’s shitty apartment is being sublet for the next four months, so it’s not like he’s got a place to go back to anyway.

So… Yeah. Holiday. With Adam. In France.

The chance of a fucking lifetime, and Tommy’s gonna seize it with both hands because it’s all they’ve got to… not fix a broken relationship, but power it up enough to survive the nine months touring across the world.

He’s gonna do it right.

The plane finishes taxiing down the runway, and Tommy lets go of the arm rests cautiously. Adam doesn’t care – he’s a cool flyer anyway, unlike Tommy who spent the entirety of the flight from NYC to Paris clutching Adam’s hand, the arm rest, a bottle of water or his fucking hair, praying for a miracle – and grabs for Tommy’s now free fingers.

“Are you excited, baby?” Ooh, that’s Adam all over. Baby. Sweetie. Honey. It’s taken a while to get used to because they’re so kinda.... cutesy. It’s a couple thing in _every fucking way_. It’s a _real_ couple thing, you know?

Tommy kinda likes it. A lot, a lot.

“Fuck yeah.”

They shuffle out of the plane - past the gangs of tourists, past the parents who look shell-shocked and the screaming, overtired kids who make Tommy want to ram a condom in their parents’ hands because, _seriously, that little fucker in the blue t-shirt cried for the first four hours fucking straight from LAX,_ past the tired looking men and women in business suits who look like they haven’t slept in six weeks before they finally step out of the door into the bright sunlight.

The steps are rickety, and it feels more like a fucking ladder than anything, but the second Tommy’s feet touch solid (French!) ground, he feels so much better. Like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders.

“Ready, baby?” Adam threads his fingers through Tommy’s, smiles down at him and he looks so… _happy._ Ready for this.

From the airport, it’s a four hour taxi ride down to the coast, and through winding little back roads to their village where they’ll be staying for the next two months, but, hey. Kisses in the back of taxis are cool, right?

“Yeah. I’m fucking ready.”

\--

Tommy stretches, leans his arms on the top of the iron balcony railing, looks down at the street below.

It’s early. Like, five am early. The breeze coming off the sea is like cool fingers running through his hair, caressing the shaven part of his head.

He’s not on American time; he’s on Tommy time, and right now his fucked up body clock says it’s about three in the afternoon. He’s okay with that. He likes the night, and he likes the pre-dawn time - whenever he doesn’t have to get up on someone else’s orders, at least.

It’s always cool, there’s always bird song, no matter where he is, and there’s just nothing to… bother him. Nothing to distract him, nothing to wind him the fuck up. On tour, when he was mega-stressed and ready to maul the next person who tries to jump him, he used to wake up early, wander down to the pool or the gardens or wherever he could get five minutes peace and just try to center himself.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes, it doesn’t and Sutan or Adam has to hold him back because he’s like a Rottweiler on crack. It’s getting better though. He’s getting used to it.

Slowly.  

He’s not in control of the tour, or Adam’s boss, and he can’t make things happen when he’s this close. He has to let the people in charge make those decision and trust that they know what they’re doing. People like Lane, and Perry, and Andrew who understand more than Tommy and Adam do combined. And it’s kind of hard, and he knows Adam has the same feelings at times, but… they’re getting there. Learning those boundaries, right?

He hopes they’ll start picking those up again this vacation, start thinking about where Adam’s voice is going after this tour, but that’s tomorrow’s issue.

Right now, on the French coast, he’s admiring a beautiful view. Their apartment, rented for the vacation, overlooks the beach and an awesome promenade with traditional restaurants, cafes, and cute little shops. Hey, Tommy can appreciate some cute shops, okay? Pretty sweet for finding souvenirs to take back to the family at home.

Maybe this time he’ll be bringing some back from his jaunt into the unknown. Unlike London.

He sips his coffee – the apartment came with _the_ best coffee maker in the world, seriously – and sighs.

London was a long time ago. A world ago, it feels sometimes. Six years is a long time. It’s most of a decade, almost, and that’s how long it’s been since everything changed.

And holy shit did it turn upside down.

It’s been six whole years since Tommy landed in a strange country, on the run from himself and his shittastic friends, since he took the advice of some random internet person, hightailed it to LAX, and let the ticket clerk choose where she sent him.

And it was to London.

 It’s been six years since he met Adam in a tea shop, trying to figure the fuck out of money that still don’t make any fucking sense to him. Six very short years since he met the force of nature known as Sutan and Raja and ended up being their bitch for weeks on end. With Adam, of course.

Sutan’s hung around since London, though. The man has multiple talents, that’s all Tommy can say.

It’s been six years since he left London, left _Adam_ because his tickets were non-refundable, and he had to go. He had to. Separating at the airport, leaving Adam and Sutan standing there waving goodbye was horrible.

So fucking horrible.

He hated every goddamn second of that flight back to America, back to his family who were panicking because he wasn’t in New York like he said, he wasn’t answering his phone, he wasn’t…

He wasn’t there when his Dad flew in to see him, knocking on the apartment door for a surprise, and the old fucking band didn’t know jackshit about no Tommy Joe no more.

He’d been yelled at until his ears bled, and his dad was hoarse. Grounded for fucking _life,_ and told he was totally irresponsible and all that shit, and, yeah, it was true. Taking a random vacation to London, not telling anyone where he was going, lying about where he was… not exactly the best way to prove he was an adult.

So, yeah. He worked some more, and did some more pissing around in bands, and shit, and just… existing. He dated  - of course he did; he’s not some one-guy-only kinda man, and… well, he thought he’d never see Adam again.

London was London, but this was LA, and he kind of expected Adam to sink back into the past, just be a memory, and a damn fine one at that.

Until he got a phone call.

Adam.

On his way back from Germany, needing a place to stay, and it was… it wasn’t like London, but it was, and then… It had been nine months since they’d last met, nine months, and Tommy picked Adam up at the airport and … that kiss.

Right there, in the middle of the airport terminal, and it was… it was like nine months never happened.

They vanished completely, and it was like Adam was just a day behind Tommy, all those feelings just as new and raw as they were in London, surging again at the touch of Adam’s lips on his.

The look in Adam’s eyes told him that the feelings were pretty much mutual.

He had offered to get Adam something to eat, driven him to a Taco Bell in his ridiculously crapped out car, and over a dinner of tacos and a single coke, because they didn’t have enough change between them for two, Adam explained where he’d been.

Broadway. A cruise ship around the Mediterranean, Germany, working dead end jobs between shows and seasons, and trying in every way to break into a system that didn’t seem to want him.  He’d flown back from Germany late, staying on for as long as he could to try to earn extra cash, but, in the end, nothing worked. He’d flown back on the last day of his visa, broke and without his parents’ knowledge.

Not to mention the fact he had nowhere to stay in LA.

He didn’t tell Tommy why he didn’t want go home, even though he talked about his mom and his dad and his brother with nothing but love and adoration in his voice. Tommy didn’t ask. Sometimes, families were more complicated than they seemed, and just walking back in the door after trying so hard to stay away must have terrified Adam.

Tommy offered up a place at his house. Didn’t even think fucking twice about it – he just opened his mouth and there it was. There, in the car, even though he was still living at home, and working at a shittastic call center job, so he wouldn’t be there with Adam every day, he offered to put him up.

For as long as Adam needed it.

He forgot that his mom had turned the spare room into a craft room, throwing out the shitty double and covering every available surface with card making shit, and plastic beads, and hot glue guns. She was very into ‘crafts’ now, ever since she started working only part time. He just tried to make sure he didn’t get glitter all over his jeans and shit because the stuff fucking multiplied, and everything.

As they learned when Adam decided to make his new tour theme _glittertastic!_

The day you pick glitter out of your belly button by the handful is the day glitter has _officially_ outlived its use. 

And Tommy refused to let Adam sleep on the fucking _couch._ That thing was a chiropractor’s nightmare, and there was no way Adam could have coped with it. Not after a fourteen hour flight. Tommy refused to contemplate it, and if Adam shook his head and rolled his eyes, he didn’t say anything. Just grinned and asked Tommy if he still lived at home.

Yeah. He did. There was not enough money in call center jobs to get a place of his own, and he was still throwing around the idea of college, and being a hundred and twenty grand in debt by the time he was twenty five, with a piece of degree paper to prove it. 

He didn’t particularly want to go - what would he study? It’s not like a guy could just pick up a degree in kicking ass and taking names, with a minor in being an awesome guitarist, you know? But his parents wanted him to go - the first Ratliff guy to go, _ever…_ but… his heart just wasn’t in it.

So yeah. He was nineteen, living at home with his parents, and just… drifting through life.

The only place left for Adam to sleep was Tommy’s bed. It was a double - they’d be fine. That’s what Tommy said, all the way to his parent’s house, all the way through the ‘family discussion’ that resulted from him bringing a strange man home at ten at night, and all the way up the stairs, into his room until they were standing either side of the suddenly _very small_ double bed.

They woke up the next morning, spooning, and Adam’s fingers curling around Tommy’s dick.

Kinda said it all, really.

From that first, slightly awkward but mostly awesome morning together, everything was different.

They never said _Let’s start dating,_ but the day after Adam moved back into his parents place, he turned back up at Tommy’s and offered to take him to the movies.

It was for a showing of _The Man who shot Liberty Valance,_ and Adam tried to pay for the popcorn with euros before Tommy subbed him the eight dollars and eighty five cents.

And it grew. And Adam changed, and Tommy changed, and they grew together, and by the time that Adam saw the auditions poster for a tv talent show, they weren’t official, not by a long shot, but …  They were comfortable together. They didn’t move in together, but Tommy had a toothbrush and knew exactly how to operate the coffee machine eyes closed and half asleep at Adam’s, and Adam’s wardrobe just kind of expanded in Tommy’s wardrobe until it overtook it completely, and he was on first name terms with all the people on his floor. They had their own individual coffee cups in each other’s kitchen, and they knew exactly how much noise they could make in each apartment before the neighbours started cheering and giving scores out.

Well. At Adam’s place. In Tommy’s, they banged on the walls and threatened to call the super.

They kept it together, and they kept it working, and the relationship became... right. They fit into it neatly.

Then everything changed. Adam was on Idol, was on a fucking _show,_ and climbing the ranks, and he was a gay man, an openly gay man fighting for his right to be a singer in the mainstream rather than hiding it away, and America was just… loving it. Tommy watched every week. He kissed Adam good luck before every show, even if it was a whole two days early because he wasn’t allowed into the contestant’s house.

He was there for the final. And when Adam wasn’t called out, wasn’t named the winner, Tommy Joe was there. He was there.  

He held Adam when he cried.

And then it just spiralled out from there.

Sometime from that horrible moment where Adam’s dream fell apart, a contract happened, an album happened, the American Idol tour happened, and a bright, shiny-with-teeth new world of showbiz opened up.

Tommy can’t believe it some days.

Other days, like today, when he’s just looking out over the vast expanse of the sea and contemplating what’s happened, he can understand. Can believe it. Can hope that’ll keep on being amazing.

And here’s Adam now, padding through the open glass doors, wrapping his arms around Tommy, stealing his coffee as the sun begins to burn away the tiny bit of cloud that’s formed overnight as it rises.

“Hey,”

“Hi.”

Adam doesn’t say anything else, and they lean together on the balcony, looking over the sea and the sleepy village that has only just begun to stir.

On the street below, a lone man cycles past on an old fashion bicycle, a wicker basket on the front holding a stack of newspapers. They watch in amusement as he wobbles down a narrow alley and disappears from view. Coming from the other direction, a woman carrying a cloth covered tray waves to them as she opens the door to the bakery two doors down.

Adam taps Tommy on the shoulder. “Baby?” He doesn’t even need to ask any more than that. Tommy abandons his coffee for the only thing better than hot caffeinated goodness.

Good morning kisses are the best thing in the world.

Six years have taught him that.

 

 


	2. Cobblestones

 

  
Chapter Two:

Cobblestones

 

 

Tommy scrubs his hand through his hair as they amble through the streets of the village, hand in hand. It feels so nice to be out in public, holding hands, and not trying to dodge a pack of paparazzi everywhere they go.

They’ve been down to the beach for a few hours today, paddling at the edge of the sea, stretching out on towels they stole from the apartment laundry closet and sunbathing. It was too much effort to resist the allure of yellow sandy expanse and the brilliant blue waters - cool, but not cold. After spending breakfast on the balcony, eyeing the ocean front between coffee and toast for Tommy, and tea and eggs benedict for Adam, they decided that it was worth it. Kisses on the beach were just as good as morning kisses on the balcony.

Then they went and poked around in the little farmers market, and then wandered up to the top of the village to the look out tower...

They were tourists. It was fucking _awesome_ to just mooch along and not give a fuck if they were more than ten minutes in one place, or if Adam wanted to admire a view, or if Tommy wanted to buy something. No tour manager, no band, no crew... Just them.

And now, they’re hungry, and a little bit tired, and very, very, very ready to stop walking. On either side of them as they amble down the street, they’re shadowed by high walls made of yellow stone dripping green vines and flowers and hanging baskets with explosions of petals and sweet smelling herbs. This place is seriously like a dream come true.

Under Tommy’s sandaled feet, the stones are smooth, worn away after centuries of use.

This place feels old.

It feels nice.

“Wanna go have something to eat?” Adam points at a little café, tucked away behind a half wall of the same yellow stone. The end of the little side street they’re on opens up onto the main drag, with restaurants and bars, and the apartment desk clerk labelled a few of them on a map for them this morning, but eh. This place, with red and white umbrellas casting shade over wooden tables, and the smell of fresh bread rolling out of the open door seems as good as anywhere.

“Sure.”

Tommy leaves Adam to order the food – they’re both pretty shit at French, but Adam is slightly less shit, so he gets food duty tonight – and instead chooses their seats, tucked neatly into a corner underneath the shade of an umbrella.

Today’s their second day here, since yesterday was spent mostly recovering from the flight from hell, and doing domestic shit like stocking up the refrigerator, and in general being lazy and decadent, feeding each other strawberries, and then trying to smoosh them down each other’s shirts because it was so fucking _hot._

And then there was showering together in that brand new big ass shower in the bathroom, and holy fuck, Tommy wants one when he gets home. Home décor is not his thing, but showers that are big enough to make sex a possibility (and something that actually happened, but who’s being technical) are. And he wants one. Holy shit, he’d sell his soul - what’s left of it, according to the Westboro crazies - for it.

This morning was a lazy morning, and Adam had to tempt him out of bed with coffee. Lots and lots of very well made coffee from the machine of machines to end all machines. Today, they’ve been to the market at the top of the village, and brought bread - after two attempts. The first time, they got a look like he’d offered a threesome in the backroom, the second time, the chick behind the counter handed him a jar of coffee - and splashed along the beach in the afternoon because hey, it was there -

“Oh Gott,” someone mumbles from behind him, breaking his concentration.

Absently drumming his fingers on the table covered with a red and white checkered table cloth, Tommy looks around, curious as to who spoke.

The only other guy there - so obviously it has to be him, duh - is a few tables over, flicking through the menu, but he looks completely baffled. Tommy can sympathise. French is a _weird_ language. He mumbles in German more, and Tomy can’t help his lip quirking up.

A cold touch on his arm makes him start.

“SHIT!”

“Jumpy.” It’s so not Tommy’s fault he was lost in thought, and Adam didn’t fucking announce himself like a good boyfriend should.

“Fuck you,” he says, but softens it with a smile, and Adam grins back. They’re okay still.

“Here.” Adam places a bottle of beer on the table in front of him. “Be about twenty minutes for the food though - everything’s cooked to order here!” Adam has such a hard on for home cooked food. He so doesn’t understand the lure of fast food, unlike Tommy who knows Taco Bell’s menu like the back of his hand.

“What we having?”  Tommy trusts Adam enough to order for him - he knows what’s edible, and what’s not, on the whole, even if he’s totally into all the healthy shit since he got his new management team. Bunch of health freaks. At least Adam understands Tommy’s aversion to shit that masquerades as food. Ain’t no way Tommy Joe’s gonna be eating _snails,_ for fuck’s sake. Man’s not designed to eat that shit anymore.

Man’s designed to drink cold beer in the sunshine, and play music until the day’s done. At least that what Tommy Joe is designed for.

“Fish,” Oh, great. Healthy night tonight, “Salad, with potatoes, and she says there’s a dessert case as well if we want.”

“Awesome.” Tomorrow night, Tommy’s finding out where the best burgers and fries are at in this tiny little village, and tough shit what Adam says. He’s always on some kind of a health kick, and it’s a sign of Tommy’s endless love and patience that he endures it. As far as he’s concerned, the Bell’s a perfectly acceptable source of food, but Adam doesn’t agree.

Not at all.

Dick.

“Ah, Scheisse!” The guy behind Tommy swears again, and Adam perks up.

“Do you think he needs help?” He nods towards the guy who’s still mumbling in German - even Tommy knows _shit_ in German, thanks - and there’s the Adam Tommy fell in love with. Bleeding heart man all over. Adam’s year in Germany with _Hair_ might just come in handy again.

“Go for it.” Tommy throws his thumb over his shoulder, and Adam grins at him, bright and happy because the man is a born people pleaser, and he’s going to get the chance to do it again.

He gets up, pecking Tommy on the lips (sap. Adam is a ridiculous sap, and Tommy is too because he fucking _blushes_ a bit) and picks up the French language guidebook that Tommy’s been carrying around all day just for the sheer hell of it.

Tommy picks up his beer, spins around to watch.

“Hey. Hey!” Adam wanders over to the other guy, tucked into the corner, and Tommy watches with affection when he nearly falls over a chair. He curses, his scruffy sandals slapping the flagstones as he spins, and the other guy blinks at the sight.

“Ja?” He seems to be a little out of his depth for the moment.

The look on the guy’s face though when Adam launches into a string of German is fucking _amazing._ He looks like he’s being lifted into heaven or something. Must be having one _hell_ of a day then if just hearing his own language does that to him.

\--

Before Tommy knows it, the guy’s been invited across to share their table, bringing a backpack, with him, to sit opposite Tommy.

He’s young - younger than Tommy thought, now that he’s closer and not hiding in the shade. Dreadlocks spill out from under a grey beanie, and he’s got a silver lip ring. Tommy touches the old scar in his own lip with his tongue. One element of rebellion he didn’t keep, in the end. The baggy jeans and t-shirt of the guy in front of him are huge though, like, enough to fit the guy plus Adam plus a Tommy too, if they all breathed in.

For Tommy though, who hangs with the queens, and with people like Adam who wears leopard print tights, and jack boots for his stage performances, it’s cool. Tommy’s cool with a lot of things these days.

While Tommy’s contemplating the guy, sizing him up - he’s gotta be five ten, surely - Adam helps him with the menu, translating things into German and the guy just looks like he’s about to cry.

“Long day?” Tommy asks, gently, pushing his half empty beer aside. Something about this kid makes him think he wants to know more, go digging around. Maybe Sutan's rubbing off on him again. 

“Hmm?”

“You look like hell.” He points to his own eyes, indicating the guy’s bags. When was the last time he slept?

“Tommy!” Adam is facepalming. “You can’t just say that!” He and Tommy have issues with the whole honesty thing. Tommy calls it how he sees it. Adam’s a little more … polite.

“Is okay.” Tom - _just Tom, please -_ shrugs. “My aeroplane take a long time. Nobody speak German and my English is... shit. And then the taxi…” He shakes his head. “Been a long time to get here. But I am here now.”

“Fuck yeah.” Tommy smiles, and Tom smiles back - just a little bit. And damned if it doesn’t… well, it doesn’t steal Tommy’s breath, not like Adam’s smile that makes him feel lighter than air - but his smirk devolves into a true smile, and it’s…

Nice.

 

\--

It’s kind of nice, making another friend in France.

Adam’s that kind of guy - he draws people to him, and Tommy’s just seeing another element of it. It’s not something he can explain - not in words, at least. But a certain type of people, the crazy, artistic, musical people who walk to their own beats, they’re the ones who just seem to find Adam at the right time.

Tom’s definitely a musical person.

When he takes his wallet out to pay, two guitar picks drop to the table from his pocket, and when Tommy shakes his hand after a bet that he lost (who knew the guy liked the classic Westerns?) he can feel mirrors of his own calluses. Guitar player, maybe. Or bass, but something in Tom’s behaviour makes him think guitar. Bassists are usually laid back people, the kind who epitomize zen,and roll with the punches and who don't take no shit at all.

Tommy himself excluded. He’s on haitus, from guitar right now, but that’s where his musical direction lies.

The waitress has taken away their plates and lit a couple of candles in the hurricane vases on the wall. The sun is low on the horizon, and the air is cooler now as the stars begin to scatter above them.

It’s such an old village, there’s only a few street lights, so when Tommy looks up, he can pick out the constellations perfectly.

“Nice, yes?” Tom points to the sky. “It not often that we see it.”

“We?” It’s not the first time that Tom’s mentioned a _we_ or an _us,_ but Tommy’s curious.

“…My…my brother. My friends.” It’s the first time that Tom’s stumbled, looking away from them, and something in that movement…it doesn’t sit right with Tommy Joe. Tom’s staring at his hands, turning one of the picks over and over in his fingers, and the overriding feeling coming from him is…

Shame.

Adam raises his eyebrow at Tommy, who quirks one back. Interesting. He wonders where it came from - that kind of shame. It’s not just a bit of guilt…

He wishes Sutan were here. That man is a fucking mind reader - he’d be able to tell Tommy what it meant. 

“Where are you staying?” Adam steers the conversations back to safer territory after that crappy comment of Tommy’s. Well, it wasn’t crappy intentionally. It wasn’t!

“Uh…” Tommy watches in confusion as Tom reaches into his pocket again, and takes out a post it note.

“This place?” He holds it out to Adam, who takes it. And turns it the other way up, and squints at it.

“OH!” He passes it along to Tommy. “You’re, like, ten doors down from us!”

“Dude.” Tommy nods in approval at the name of the hotel. It looked pretty fancy when they walked past it on the way to the market this morning. Little chintzy looking, but pretty sweet, all the same.

“I have no idea where it is.” Tom spreads his hands - _long_ fingers, Tommy notices absently - and shrugs. “I got lost and was hu-hun-had hun...” He frowns, clicking his fingers. “… What’s the word? Where you have…“ He rubs his belly, and it’s a fucking game of charades now.

Adam spent the first week after he came home from Berlin doing the exact same thing, because he was so tuned to German. Fucking hysterical.

“Hungry?” Tommy swigs the last of his beer. “You were hungry!”

“Yes!” Tom points to him, and nods, “And, this place looked good, and then you came along…”

“And then Adam saved your life with the menu.” Tommy points to Adam who bows, and then drops his sunglasses on the table top. Classic. “Nice one, Adam.”

“Shut up, Ratliff.”

Tom snickers, and Adam pouts. Pretty standard behaviour for Adam.

He pushes his beer aside, looks at Adam’s and sees its empty too. The stranger’s glass of coke is half empty too, but he’s pushing it back and forth, absently as he bites his lower lip, and sighs.

Time to go. “Shall we walk back together then?” Tommy offers.

He’d like to get to know this stranger a little better. 

 

 

 


	3. Cabaret Metro

  
Chapter Three:

Cabaret Metro

 

The next morning, Tommy wakes up to the smell of hot coffee, and Adam singing in the shower.

Last night was pretty nice. They walked Tom back to his hotel, talking about various things - and Tommy was right, Tom _is_ a guitarist - and just… being friendly. It was great to talk to someone who didn’t seem to _know_ who they were, who just though they were a pair of tourists.

Saying goodbye had been strangely… difficult, and Adam had offered - even before Tommy had thought about it - for Tom to come to dinner with them the next night as well. Tommy’s choice of restaurant, but it’s gonna be interesting.

Adam’s left Tommy’s mug of coffee on the bedside table; hot steaming black coffee, two sugars, and plenty of fucking ‘tude to kickstart the day. He’s trained Adam well, even though he likes his froufrou drinks with cream and shots that takes ten minutes to order at the Bux.

It’s gonna be a good day. A fucking good day. He can feel it in the air, and it’s all for one very good reason.

Today’s the day they hook up with Sutan again.

And he’s really fucking excited.

Yeah, it’s only been a month since Sutan left to go back home to his mom’s house in Sebang, in Indonesia, for a festival, but it feels like it’s been forever. Those last two weeks of tour without him were torture.

Tommy needed his Tranma.

And Adam needed his pro-makeup artist.

 Yes, he can do his own make up, and it’s okay for shows when it gets fucked up by sweat and tears and making out, but for interviews and shit it’s just not quite… polished enough yet. Not quite perfect, and everybody noticed. Adam and the band finished the tour with sloppy rock star makeup and beer on stage, and nobody said anything to them, but Adam hated it.

He’s a perfectionist.

But Sutan’s coming to visit his friend who has a place around here - at the top of the village - and Tommy and Adam are gonna pick him up at the train station, and it’s gonna be awesome to have Sutan back.

He sits up, sips his coffee and waits for his brain to kick in properly.

“Great coffee!” he bellows to Adam in the shower, who just switches up between Gold Frapp and Rihanna, to Cher.

Fucker.

It’s a much less lazy morning than yesterday - Sutan’s train arrives from Paris at eleven, and it’s already nine - but they make time for breakfast (and breakfast kisses), Tommy’s shower, and toothpaste kisses, and grab some shit for lunch because it’s a long ass walk to the top of the village and back again.

They play grabass in the kitchen while Tommy’s trying to do up his sandals, and then when they’re trying to find keys, Adam’s flapping around in his deck shoes trying to lace them up while avoiding Tommy’s smacks to the ass, and attempts to shove a wet dish cloth down his shorts.

By the time they’re out the door, Tommy and Adam have swapped more spit in a morning than they did the entirety of the tour, or so it feels.

It’s fucking awesome.

\--

Sutan’s train is late, as Tommy expected.

It’s fucking Sutan. He’s never late; everybody else is early, and the party don’t start until he walks in;that’s how it works.

Adam and Tommy sit on the wall outside the train station in the dappled shade of a tree and admire the building. It’s old, over a hundred years and beautiful. A fucking train station is beautiful, and it’s blowing Tommy’s mind, but it’s true. Iron decorations, and hanging baskets.. Everything feels so…

Perfect.

Just as they consider breaking open lunch again, they hear the train in the distance, getting louder as it comes closer.

Sutan’s coming.

\--

“OH MY GOD!” Sutan drops his cases on the cobble stones, ignoring the guard who gives him a look of displeasure and wraps Tommy up in his arms. “VayVee!”

Yep. Exactly what he needed. Tommy is smooshed against Sutan’s chest, hard and warm underneath a grey t-shirt, and it’s so fucking awesome. It’s like coming home all over again. He’s so fucking missed it. Sutan’s hands are all in his hair, and then Adam joins in too, and Tommy becomes the filling in a hug sandwich.

They only separate when Tommy needs to breathe.

“How are - here, carry this,” Sutan hands Tommy a Gucci knockoff bag, and shoves his backpack at Adam. “How are my babes?!”

“We’re pretty good.” Tommy looks at Adam who grins back. “Been nice to just get out and explore, you know? Be Tommy and Adam, not Adam Lambert and boyfriend.”

They’re all aware of how much this tour has pushed them as a couple, and Tommy’s words ring a little more than he intended.

“I can totally get behind that.” Sutan is quiet for a moment, looking between the two of them carefully. He’s assessing them, using his infamous ability to get right underneath their skin and know exactly what they’re thinking to gauge how they are. He doesn’t find them lacking. “You two look good though. Happier than when I left you.”

Very true. When Sutan left for Indonesia, it didn’t go well. At all. Without Sutan to keep the peace, Tommy and Adam blew up like Hiroshima, and it took several (loud) reprimands from Sutan over Skype to make up over the stupidest things like bad coffee and forgetting to set alarms.

But all is better now. Tommy’s working on it, and so’s Adam, so hey. It’ll be good.

Time for a new subject though. “How was your journey?” Adam picks up the make-up case that’s on the ground as well, drawing out the handle to wheel it, and Sutan nods in approval.

It’s just like London all over again: being Sutan’s houseboys and schlepping around after the Great and Mighty Fabulous Bitch. Figures that as soon as they come away from tour when Sutan’s referred to as support staff but Adam and Tommy are essential staff, it reverts back the other way. Except, this time they’re not doing it for the money, or the free board.

“Hell!” Sutan says, but his voice is manically cheerful. “I got stuck next to someone wearing _crocs,_ oh-em-gee, but what can you do?” He shrugs elegantly. “French fashion sense doesn’t get everywhere, apparently.”

Adam and Tommy share a look.

“Shut up, you two.” Sutan bats at them both with a neatly manicured (in red, white, and blue too!) hand. “It was horrible. Honky-ass foot smell all the fucking way from Paris! I nearly gagged!” A hand on his forehead and a dramatic swoon indicates just how bad the crocs were.

“We have lunch?” Tommy offers, and Sutan immediately perks up from his dramatic slump.

Food is Sutan’s weak point. Always, always, always. He picks up his cases and nods like a general going off to war. “Let’s go, bitches!”

Sutan’s back, and Tommy couldn’t be happier.

Even if he is doubling up as a pack horse right now.

 

\--

“Is that him? Is that him?!” Sutan whispers to Tommy, pointing at some random tourist in a _really_ bad Hawaiian shirt who side eyes them, and Adam and moves closer to the counter.

“No!” Tommy facepalms. “I will _tell_ you when he’s here, okay?”

“Shut up.”

“People are starting to look at us weird,” Adam says, pointing to the bar staff who are laughing behind their hands at the guy who’s edging away from Sutan as fast as he can.

“Stop it.” Tommy shoves Sutan’s beer closer to him to prevent another round of _is it him yet?_

“Boo.” Sutan pouts. Tommy knows when he’s forgiven though because Sutan starts fluffing his hair, complaining about the bleach damage, and how it’s so horrible, he might just _die_ and oh, god, how could Tommy do this to him? Did he not _love_ Sutan?

He does it because he wants to. And because it pisses people off.

But Sutan talks on and on, and Tommy allows it to wash over him, soaking in the warmth and the touches, and Adam does the same. Sutan’s their safe place, their retreat from the world because he’s so … not big, but when he’s there, you can hide behind him and his biting sarcasm and sass, and nobody can get you.

Tour has helped them find that out. It’s a rough time for everybody.

He yawns into his hand, and Sutan cooes at him as he fluffs Tommy’s hair.

It boggles Tommy’s mind that Sutan’s been up since five am, and despite that, Sutan’s ridiculously perky for a guy who spent four hours on a train today. He feels wiped out already.

But Sutan is asking for more information, and Tommy finds himself explaining more and more about what they’ve already learned about Tom. Only what he told them though yesterday, before they left him at his hotel. Tommy and Adam made a mutual decision not to google him until he gave them permission. Once upon a time, both Tommy and Adam would internet bomb the shit out everybody they met but it took away a lot of the magic of learning about them - about their likes and dislikes, music, art… it’s not… It’s not so cool when you have so few chances to get to know people anyway.

And Tommy _wants_ to get to know Tom. He doesn’t know why; he can’t explain it. He just wants to know what Tom is like, why he’s the way he is… He doesn’t understand it, but he feels it. And he knows that Adam kind of feels the same.

It’s past seven, but the sun is still warm, and all the windows are wide open to let the sea breeze in. Tommy’s beer is sweating in the heat, and he wonders where Tom is. Has he stood them up? Tommy Joe will be feeling _real_ stupid if that’s the case -

“There. That’s him.” Adam points to Tom as he scuffs his way  across the deck to the door, and Tommy breathes a silent sigh of relief. It was a risk inviting Tom out to dinner - maybe he’d google them and see something that scared him off, or he woke up and decided he didn’t care…

Tommy has no idea why he’s so invested in Tom being here, but he is. And he’s fucking pleased to see him.

“Hi.” Tom’s leaning his hands on the back of a chair, and he seems to be… nervous? One look at Sutan, and Tommy knows why.

He looks like a lion who’s just seen his new prey.

“Oops.” Tommy looks at Adam who is hiding behind his hands.

This _may_ have been the best idea Tommy’s ever had.

Or the worst.

Too early to tell yet.

 

\---

Sutan takes to Tom exactly how Tommy predicted he would.

He fucking _loves_ Tom. Adores him. Can’t get enough of him.

It’s hilarious to watch and awesome to see, because Sutan is just… so …. Sutan about it. He hasn’t just taken Tom under his wing, he’s wedged him in so far that Tommy worries that he’ll never let go.

So far he’s been slow roasted by Sutan and Adam on name, job, and where he’s staying, what’s his favourite makeup brand (“WHAT?!”) and it doesn’t look like the interrogation is going to stop. Tommy would feel sorry for him, but the answers are actually pretty interesting. Tom’s travelled, he’s in a band, he’s pretty young and just plain _pretty._

And Tommy wonders why he’s focusing so much on that last part.

“How old are you?” Sutan points his beer bottle at Tom, who looks terrified. Yet he hasn’t run screaming from their time so there must be some strength in him still. Either that or Sutan’s trapped him with his wedges, which _is_ a possibility.

“Dude, he won’t eat you.” Tommy pokes him gently. Tom’s been quiet and nervous around Sutan since he met him - all of twenty minutes ago, but hey, Sutan works fast as fuck.

Just like he did with Tommy Joe and Adam.

Less than a week, and they were firmly under Sutan’s wing (and his thumb) and he thinks that Tom should count himself lucky he didn’t have to win approval from Sutan by scrubbing toilets and mopping floors.

“E-eighteen…?”

“No way.”

“Uhhh?” Tom looks to Tommy Joe - it feels kind of weird to be the one that someone else looks to for help, but, hey, he’ll take it. And laugh because _no fucking way_ is that kid eighteen.

“Yeah, right, kid.” Adam laughs, taking another swig of beer. “You’re not eighteen. Fifteen, maybe.”

“Eighteen.” Tom knits his brows together, looking at them all laughing in confusion. “I- why you laughing at me?”

“Because, doll, and I say this with love,” Sutan points a finger at Tom, “If you’re eighteen, then I’m a fucking geriatric. You’re totally fifteen.”

“Baby!” Tommy hoots, clapping his hands and throwing his head back and cackling. Tom’s fucking _pouting,_ and he needs a hug, and Tommy is loving this so fucking much. So fucking much.

“Am not!”

“Are too!” Sutan wags his finger in front of Tom’s face, snickering. “Come off it, Tom. Who are you fooling?”

“I have proof!” Tom digs in his pocket for something, and he’s bright pink. Tommy wants to pet those bright pink cheeks and tell him he’s adorable.

Man, he’s drunker than he thought.

“Yeah, what, a store card to Toys’R’Us?” Sutan laughs again, and Tommy nearly inhales his beer. Fuck, he forgot how sharp Sutan is.

“Driver licence!” Tom slaps it down on the table, looking supremely pleased with himself, and Sutan snatches it up to examine closely.

“How do you read this fucking thing?” he hisses at Adam, who takes it and nearly drops his beer.

“No fucking way, Tom!”

“I am eighteen years old. So fuck you.” He takes great pride in saying that, rolling it around his mouth, and Tommy isn’t paying attention to the words at all. The way Tom bites his lip, the way the lip ring glints in the dying sunlight, that’s what’s caught Tommy’s attention.

Until Adam shoves the fucking driver’s licence under his nose.

 _Holy shit,_ he **is** eighteen!

“How the fuck?” he gapes at Tom. The kid is _baby faced,_ and he’s _cute,_ and there is no  way in hell he’s eighteen years old. Nu-uh. No way. Not a chance in hell - he’s so adorably cute!

“What the fuck is your secret?” Sutan is staring at the kid like he holds the secret to eternal youth. Judging from that face, maybe he does. “Do you bathe in the blood of innocent virgins? Swim in the Fountain of youth? Pay the Devil?!”

“No?” Tom looks so fucking lost - Sutan does that to people, really, but Tommy will never get tired of it, and he can’t resist any longer: reaching out to pinch that still faintly pink cheek. “Ow - Why?!” Tom pushes away Tommy’s hand with a huff.

And a _pout._ Baby.

“Because, kid, you’re making me feel old just looking at you. My crow’s feet are growing out of pure fucking spite right now.”

“What?”

“I _feel old_ next to you,” Sutan clarifies, slumping back into his seat. “You’re fucking lucky, you know that, right?”

“I am?” But even though it’s a question, Tommy can see the grin on the kid’s face, and his whole face, his whole _fucking face_ is just… perfect. Happy.

Tommy’s twenty four, and he feels fucking old next to that fucker, and _he’s_ supposed to have a baby face. The kid’s got pre-fetal face or something looking like that.

Tommy raises his beer to Tom.

“Congratulations, kid.”

\---

Dinner goes way, way,way better than Tommy expected this morning.

Sutan adores Tom, Tommy and Adam get to make out while Sutan tries to protect the eyes of the ‘baby’ who objects like fuck until he realises what Sutan is trying to save him from, and the food is fucking amazing.

Never let it be said that Tommy Joe Ratliff does not know his burger places. He fucking rocks at that, thank you very much, Adam ‘Healthy’ Lambert. He knows burgers, hot dogs, tacos, fries and shakes inside out and back to front, and he does it well.

In fact, the evening goes so well that they end up inviting Tom out for tomorrow’s boat trip. They’re just renting one from the marina, going out a few miles and chilling in the sun, but it’s pretty much the only way they’ve found that guarantees no interruptions or fucking paps. Kind of hard to sneak up on people when they’re surrounded by four miles of uninterrupted sea and surf.

Tommy’s not sure how it gets to that - inviting Tom out - but the offer was just hanging in the air for a few seconds before Tom took it. Sutan kind of looked at him side eyed, but eh, that’s Sutan. It’s just an invitation for a few hours of sun and a boat.

“And you sure it’s okay?” Tom swirls his coke. “I don’t… Is okay if you don’t want to?” He looks shy and nervous, the kind of nervous that Tommy knows oh so well. The one where you’re not sure if the offer is real or not; he was like that for the first six months after Adam got signed and shit.

God, he was twenty two. It feels like it was so long ago.

“Doll, hush up, and nod, okay?” Sutan reaches across, pets Tom’s cheek. “They wouldn’t have offered if they didn’t want to.”

“Oh.” But the blush on Tom’s cheeks turns a shade pinker when Sutan takes his hand away, and nobody says anything about it even though they all see it.

They talk some more - Sutan has so _many_ stories about the festival he went home to be in - and nobody really takes note of the time until Sutan yawns. Widely.

“Well, I’d better go.” He fluffs Tommy’s hair one last time as he points to himself. “If this bitch doesn’t get his beauty sleep, he’ll look all patronly next to you young ones.”

“What?” Tommy snorts into his glass at Tom’s look of total confusion. Oh, that’s fast becoming priceless.

“I’ll look like your daddy, and I’m not old enough to be a daddy yet,” Sutan says. “Well. Maybe a sugar daddy. But I can’t afford to support three boys, so I’ll fuck off and get some sleep, m’okay, pretties?”

“…Okay?” Tom is lost. Way out at sea already as Sutan pats his shoulder, drops fifty euro on the table, and shashays out the door. Pfft. He says he’s not a sugar daddy, and then he goes and drops their entire tab in cash on the table.

Tommy loves his Tranma.

Adam shakes his head as well. Sutan’s all awesome like that. “We can pick up our boat at eight thirty from the marina. Is that okay with you?”

“Ja.” Tom nods, pushing his finished glass away. “I see the marianna from my window.”

“Marina.”

“Marianna.”

“Marina.” Adam tries again, speaking slowly and carefully. Tommy snorts into his beer bottle again and tries not to look at Adam, or he’ll die laughing.

Little bit too much sugar tonight, he thinks.

Tom looks at Adam like he’s speaking Greek. “Marinana. I said that.”

“Marina.”

“Are you okay?” Tom leans forward, eyes Adam warily.

“I - no - uh - …” Adam looks at Tommy for help.

“Sure. We’ll be down at the marianna at eight thirty. Bring beer.” Tommy smiles winningly at Adam who is pouting at being denied boyfriendly assistance, “We’ll bring food, unless there’s something awesome that you want.”

“Okay.” Tom smiles, and Tommy admits to himself he kind of wants to see that smile again. A lot.

Tomorrow is going to be fucking awesome.

 

 

 


	4. All Change

 

Chapter Four:

All Change

 

“Vayvee!”

It’s too early for this shit, Tommy reflects when he actually focuses on what he’s seeing.

It’s a boat.

A big ass boat, really.

And Sutan looks fucking proud of himself.

“I love you.” Adam immediately shows his true colours, ditching Tommy to confess his love for Sutan. Surely Tommy’s worth more than a big ass boat, right? You’d think that after, like, five years of devoted love and really really fucking awesome sex.

But apparently not, if all the stars in Adam’s eyes are anything to go by.

“Vayvee?”

“It’s big.” Tommy readjusts his sunglasses, reconsiders his ‘plan’ (a.k.a Adam telling him that it was too late for another mug of coffee as he shoved Tommy plus the cooler of beer and soft drinks out the door) to wait for coffee once the boat gets underway. This is definitely a double  espresso kind of morning. Possibly one without sugar. At least until he’s had a chance to wake up and come to grips with being human all over again.

And Sutan’s outfit. It’s far too early in the fucking morning to be dealing with white skinny shorts, and hot pink vests with the slogan _come to papa_ on the front.

Way too fucking early.

“I needed a subtle metaphor for a great big dick but at the same time make it so amazingly obvious that nobody would dare to try to size up. Not that they’d win, but it’s the principle of the matter.” Sutan shrugs elegantly. “I think it covers both, don’t you?”

“No. Needs more glittery shit.” Sutan never does just plain white. It has to have rhinestones and glitter and a fabulous belt all over it to make it _his._ That’s why Tommy and Adam are plastered with the stuff every time they wander anywhere near a stage. Sutan likes people to know when he’s done work on his ~~victims~~ models.

“Baby, it’s a rental. When I make pots of money, and can afford to keep three pretty fuckers as my cabana boys, then I’ll have the biggest shiniest most glittering motherfucking boat ever. Until then, this is it.” Sutan puts his hands on his hips, looking at Tommy with eyes that see everything about Tommy. “Are you pmsing, or did Adam make you leave behind your coffee?”

Not the first, but a bit of the second (alright, slightly more than a ‘bit’) and a hell of a lot of option C. He had an insomnia attack last night - right when he fucking didn’t want it. Tommy wanted today to be perfect because of _Adam_ and _Tom_ and everything. It’s not every day he finds people that he wants to connect with - that he wants to _get to know_ in a way that’s beyond the norm for introverted little Tommy Joe Ratliff.

He doesn’t know what it is. Something about Tom… he wants to know more. And more. And more.

When it turned four am, and he was still sitting in the living room, watching M*A*S*H dubbed in _really_ bad French voice overs, he knew that his perfect day wasn’t gonna happen. Not today.

Nobody can make it perfect after hours and hours awake and barely functioning.

“Come here, Tommy.” Sutan pulls him close, pets Tommy’s hair, tells him that they’ll just be chillin’ on the water, so he can doze whenever he wants. It completely blows fucking ass that Tommy’s insomnia manages to intrude on a day like this, but this is the _privilege_ of being friends with Sutan. Anyone else would tell Tommy to fuck off back to the hotel or get pissy about it.

Sutan is all about rolling with it.

Fifteen minutes later, Tommy’s on the deck at the back of the boat, with a blanket because of the cool breeze from the sea, sitting on the cooler and keeping watch for Tom while Adam is going on the grand tour of the HMS Titanic, Sutan edition.

With any luck it has a really big bed, and Tommy can seriously catch some zs on there while everybody else gets some sun and fucks around with the fishing rods that Tommy can see stashed in the racks inside, despite Sutan assuring him that there will be no fishing.

Tommy can smell a lie at sixty paces, thanks very much.

 He knows Sutan likes fishing - something to do with his childhood, visiting his grandparents in Indonesia and traditional fishing when he was travelling around the world, being anything and everything as long as it earned him money - and Adam’s always up for it because he’s got fucking _Iowa_ blood in him or something. The kind of blood that makes him appreciate fields and forests and _camping._

Tommy’s a city kid - born and bred on asphalt and record stores, where everything can be bought at the store, and Taco Bell is where it’s happening.

Not at the other end of a fishing line.

He leans back against the rail, tries to sink down into the fuzz that’s taking over  his mind, and he’s almost there when he hears the soft creak of the walkway again.

“Tommy?”

Holy fuck, what - he wasn’t sleeping - much - what the hell?

Tom is standing on the walk way, clutching a six pack of beer in either hand and looking nervous still.

“Hey.” And that isn’t a smile spreading over Tommy’s face. It’s not. Or maybe it is, but he’s just pleased to see the beer. “You found us then…”

“Is a big boat.” Tom looks at the _Acadia Mara_ and raises his eyebrows behind his black sunglasses. Ray Bans too. Expensive shit.

“Big ass boat,” Tommy agrees absently.

Instead of focusing on what he should have been - helping Tom down into the boat, and taking his beer to shove in the cooler, he’s too busy staring. Well, so fucking sue him. If it wasn’t so fucking early, he wouldn’t be doing it. He looks Tom over, contemplating why Tom insists on wearing his huge black t-shirt and baggy basketball shorts, and he wonders what the body underneath is like. As thin as Tom’s wrists and ankles suggest? Does he go to the gym, or is he like Tommy, just doing enough to be able to run up stairs?

And then he hears Adam’s laughter, and he wonders if he should be thinking like that, even though he’s _not_ thinking like _that,_ you know?

Yeah, neither does Tommy.

“This is… Different….” Tom appears dubious at the size of the boat, swinging the six pack idly as he squints at the brilliant white exterior.

“Nice though, right?”

“It’s… not what I expected.” Tom looks around carefully, appreciating all the chrome and white panelling and rails and the ultra modern look of the place. Honestly, Tommy Joe isn’t sure if Sutan hired a boat or a space ship.

“Sutan wanted something to show off how big his dick was. But showing off dicks in public is illegal, so this’ll have to do.” Tommy shrugs. “Personally, I think we could have done with an inflatable dinghy in the middle of the ocean, because it’d be truer to size - “

“Ahem.”

Tommy should really learn to look behind himself because shit talking someone, because that would be Sutan bearing down on him. “Hi, Sutan.”

“Uh _huh.”_ Nobody else Tommy knows can inject _quite_ as many layers into that word as Sutan can. Except maybe Raja. There’s _bite_ in it, and plenty of promise for revenge later, as well as a hint of perfectly poised _bitch_ in there too. The kind of bitch that means Sutan can turn out a perfect snap z snap, kick Tommy’s ass from here to LA in heels, and never ruffle a hair.

He really should have stayed home today, Tommy thinks.

Or possibly worn a life vest.

“Morning, doll.” Sutan doesn’t lift his hand from Tommy’s shoulder, but he waves Tom onto the deck. “Come on, come on. I don’t bite.”

“Really?” But Tom steps down anyway, his black sneakers scuffing on the slippery deck before he grabs onto the rail. “Shit!” He pauses for a second or two, waiting for stability before he brings his other leg down to the deck.

Tommy knows that Sutan _waits_ until Tom’s just got his balance again for maximum effect. “Only if you’re very good to me.” And there’s the part of Sutan that is Raja, and Tommy could really fucking get used to watching Tom almost fall again, turning red and blushing. “It’s a reward.”

“I - but - what - you….” Tom flounders, and Adam is snickering in the doorway. “Help?” He looks beseechingly at both Tommy and Adam, obviously hoping that someone’ll come and rescue him from the terror that is Raja.

“Fuck no.” Tommy makes himself comfortable on the cooler again. “Raja’s gonna win. Let her take you, and it’ll be quicker.”

“And more fun.”

Judging by the _scarlet_ that flares up Tom’s cheeks and down his neck at that comment from Adam, Raja would probably eat him alive, with that whole blushing, nervous, little kid thing. Or keep him as a pet in a bedroom, but for Raja, it’s kind of a fifty-fifty thing.

But Tommy thinks she rather likes Tom.

“Hey, Tom. “Adam salutes him with a coffee cup before he hands it to Tommy. “Here, Tommy…”

“I love you.” Raja’s a whore for pretty young things, but Tommy’s a slut for coffee and he happily forgives Adam for being a dick this morning when he denied Tommy his last coffee.

“Love you too.” And Adam strokes his fingers down Tommy’s neck, and it feels so fucking good. So good just to be touched and not have to to think about paparazzi or anything.

“Orgy time!” Sutan waves his hands in the air, and Tom actually drops his beer, staring at Sutan, eyes wide open. “What - oh. Honey, I’m kidding.” Tom doesn’t look convinced. “Tommy, you had to pick up a green one, didn’t you?”

“Not my fault he’s as green as fuck. He just needs some of your fabulous, you know?”

“I do… You two turned out alright, didn’t you?”

“Fucking awesome, I think.” Adam pets Tommy’s hair idly. “I approved wholeheartedly, right from the very beginning, didn’t I?”

“Shut up, Adam,” Tommy says, but only because that’s not _entirely_ true.

“We could do it today, I suppose… I have some eyeliner…” Sutan is starting to sound contemplative, and Tom looks horrified, but there’s a smile peeking in the corner of his mouth, just where his dimples are, and Tommy is… not fascinated ,but he wants to _see_ them more.

“Uhh….”

“Actually, I think I could make it back to my place… bring my make-up kit… Nowhere to run in the middle of the ocean, is there?”

“No!” Tom scoops up the beer from where he dropped it on the deck, holds it out like an offering, slightly dented and all. “I bring beer, you keep the make-up, yes? That is how it works!”

“It is?”

“Yes!” Tommy nods fervently. “It is how it works. I know these things. I have a twin - ” 

“Pfft. I’ll get you sooner or later.” But Sutan does back off a bit, going over to join Adam by the doorway into the cabin rather than looming behind Tommy Joe.

He misses the warmth already.

“Five minutes until anchor’s up!” He calls behind him, stealing Adam’s coffee and ignoring the _Sutaaaaan!_ that he gets in reply. “Suck it up, singer boy. It’s my boat; it’s my coffee.”

“Well.”

“Wow.” Tom smiles at Tommy, a full on smile, and it’s shy and crooked, and it starts on one side and grows and…

It’s only when Tom’s made his way through into the cabin, leaving Tommy Joe alone on the deck in the cool shade that it hits him what that smile made him feel inside, and how _good_ it was.

And what those feelings mean.

_Well, **fuck.**_

 

\--

 

By the time the sun is climbing higher in the sky, and Sutan’s taken them a few miles out to sea westwards around the coast, well away from other ships and boats, secluded from anyone who might be trying to sneak up on them, Tommy’s gotten past his little epiphany.

Mostly.

He hopes it’s honestly the luxury of being free and able to, you know, express himself. All those secret desires coming to the surface when he’s able to process them, instead of his usual mechanism of shoving them as far down inside as he possibly can and moving on as fast he possibly can.

He hopes.

Something tells him that’s being distinctly wishful in how simple it appears.

Now that they’ve dropped anchor, everything’s quiet and calm out here, far away from other people, and cars, and just everything. Just them, sun, sea, and salt.

There’s a couple of chairs out on the deck now, and Sutan’s sprawled in one, a beer in one hand, and fishing rod in the other. He’s got an ice bucket on standby, ready for the catch - if he gets one. Apparently, it’s dinner tomorrow night, because they’re all invited up to one of his parties, and he’s got _plans._

Tommy’s not sure but there may have been a cackle in there. May have been.

Tom looks distinctly apprehensive about said plans, but Tommy waves them off. The worst that can happen is some pictures, and having to do a walk of shame to the bathroom or a bedroom from wherever you were abandoned post-drunk-makeup session to sleep off the booze.

Yes, he’s done a few of them. More than a few of them, actually, in six years knowing the man, including a memorable occasion involving a tree house. He still hasn’t worked that one out. It’s a hazard of being Sutan’s Vayvee, he’s learned.

Tom will just have to learn to sit down and look pretty.

“Want to swim?”

“Hmm?” Tommy comes out of his sun induced stupor. “What?”

“Do you want to swim?” Tom asks, and his hands are crumpling the edge of his t-shirt. Despite the rising heat and perfect breeze that makes it perfect sunbathing weather, even for Tommy Joe Ratliff, king of the ghosts, Tom’s remained bundled up in t-shirt, shorts, and shoes.

Crazy.

“You coming, Adam?” Tommy looks at Adam, but there’s no answer. He asks again, but there’s still no answer, and he wanders closer, asking again. Maybe Adam’s engrossed in fishing, even though Tommy doesn’t understand it one fucking bit. When he leans over the back of Adam’s deck chair though, the answer’s clear even before he finishes his sentence.

Adam’s snoring gently underneath his parasol, sunglasses propped on his forehead, and his fishing rod in a brace on the side of the boat.

“Going to go out on a limb here and say he won’t be joining you.” Sutan is facing the water on his own deckchair under another parasol, and he doesn’t look like he’s far behind Adam. His beer bottle is in the cupholder, and he’s added a festive paper umbrella for no fucking reason other than he’s Sutan. “Have fun, honeys.” He adds, waving them off with the hand that isn’t holding his fishing rod.

“Fair enough, lazy fuckers. Guess it’s just us two - “ Tommy turns back to Tom, wondering if Tom’ll just go in as he is or something. But it seems, while Tommy’s been focused elsewhere, Tom’s been busy.

Getting naked.

Well. Mostly naked.

More than half naked.

Good kind of naked.

Tommy has to remember to shut his mouth as he watches Tom place his sneakers neatly underneath his own chair and stand up again, shirtless and wearing just a pair of baggy surf shorts.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt like this. The kid looks _really, really fucking good._

Tommy’s never been much of a picky person. It’s about the connection he makes with someone that tells him he loves someone, the feeling, the ability to feel comfortable with them on an emotional level. It’s how he came to find Adam and Sutan - they _get_ him, they know how he feels even if Tommy can’t articulate it in any way, shape or form. And even though he can appreciate a nice body, it’s never been high on his list of priorities. At least while he’s not browsing for porn.

Hey, porn is different, m’okay?

But uh… this kid? Eighteen, and all that?

_Pretty. As. Fuck._

Not too built, but just right. Soft, but strong underneath. Long neck. Long legs. Long arms. _Long everything_ because that kid goes on for miles. Everything a little pale, but already turning a golden colour, and those pretty blonde dreadlocks…

Oh, Tommy’s well fucking gone into being love with this kid and he doesn’t know how it happened.

In all fairness, confronted with naked flesh, and perfect abs, and a pair of nipples he just wants to lick (and fucking _how)_ it’s kind of not surprising he drops his beer all down his front. Including the mouthful he had.

It’s gonna be a _very_ long day, he decides as he spins around, trying to pretend nothing happened.

Nobody says anything as he throws off his t-shirt, but Tommy Joe still feels the cold burn into his chest.

\--

“HA!”

“FUCK YOU!” Tom howls in indignation, following up the obligatory f-word with a stream of German that doesn’t sound especially complimentary as Tommy beats a hasty retreat, already crowing about his lead of six points to two and planning his next strike.

It’s now about four in the afternoon, and this is like, their third dip into the water, cooling off from the boiling sun, but now it’s just Tommy and Tom again. Adam’s disappeared inside the cabin to help Sutan make food. And to put away their fucking great catches.

This time, Tommy and Tom are playing the dunk game, helped by Sutan’s helpful addition of some music ( _“Gold Frapp, whooo!”_ was the last thing Tommy’s heard from Adam in a while) in the background, so it’s harder to hear someone coming up behind you. Point goes to whoever gets head and shoulders of the other person under the water, so having eyes in the back of your head is helpful.

Tom doesn’t appear to have that, and he apparently doesn’t appreciate getting his dreads wet either.

His face is pink again as he darts for the other side of the boat, trying to escape, but he’s not going to win against Tommy Joe. 

They’ve been going for about twenty minutes now, and Tom’s getting better - not as good as Tommy who’s been playing it at the municipal pool since he was nine, but not bad. Not bad at all.

Still, Tommy elected not to tell Tom of the double or nothing rule just because he doesn’t think that stripping Tom in the name of collecting double his points and the rights to the last beer in the cooler is worth popping wood in front of everybody.

Maybe.

Maybe another time.

Another fifteen minutes, two dunks for Tom, and one almost but not quite dunk for Tommy Joe, have passed and Sutan’s shouted that they’ve got another hour before they have to return the boat, and they need to come back on deck or he’ll leave them out here, and there might be _sharks._

Tom laughed at that, hanging onto the side rail at the back of the boat, and it’s … it’s not a perfect sound but the _look_ of happiness on his face went right to Tommy’s gut, making him feel shivery and just…

What’s happening to him?

But now, they’re focused on the here and now.

It’s the last one.

The last dunk, as it were, and Tommy’s apparently all alone.

The music’s been traded for something else - something heavier, more sultry which is Sutan’s doing, more likely - and Adam’s gone back to sleeping in his deck chair, in between pulling in the last of his fish. Dinner tomorrow night is going to be fucking amazing.

Tommy swims for the front of the boat, knowing that staying still makes it easier for Tom to sneak up on him, and even as he rounds the corner, Tommy can feel the adrenaline spike even though it’s just a game.

What can he say? He’s a junkie for that spike, that rough jolt of energy and desperation. It’s why he likes horror films. He just hates it when he’s not in control of it -

_There!_

Tom made his move too soon - it’s just a brush against Tommy’s leg, a tiny little movement, but that’s enough to let him know of the attempt.

But it’s not quick enough.

 As Tom comes up, Tommy moves backwards but too slowly to completely avoid Tom’s scrabbling fingers, and then it’s a hopeless mess of being ambushed and trying to get the upper hand with Tom at the same time.

Exactly what they needed, in Tommy’s opinion.

They go around and around the water, bubbles streaming everywhere, and it’s not panic that floods Tommy’s system but that perfect jolt of energy. It’s rough and tumble in the water, and he doesn’t care that Tom’s hands are all over him, trying to grab his board shorts, make him let go, but he won’t let go because he’s going to get this point.

Tommy Joe Ratliff plays to win, motherfucker, and all Tom has to do is _give in._

He doesn’t want to  - they surface for air twice, brief gasping breaths before going again - and he’s definitely not making it easy for Tommy to win, like Adam does.

Adam just wants excuses for kisses, and the chance to make out in the water, and maybe a little touching below the belt and that is fucking amazing in of itself. But right now, Tommy _revels_ in getting someone who pushes back, who doesn’t _let_ him have that victory. Who makes him earn it and tries to do the same, so he can’t be sure of victory.

It’s been so long since someone’s done that - Adam’s so … _permissive._ He doesn’t mind if Tommy wins, or by how much, and he doesn’t care that Tommy wants someone to push back, and Tommy _fucking needs_ someone to give him that. He does best when he’s pushing against something because it makes him dig in, _want_ to win.

And Tom’s the one’s fulfilling that need right now.

It’s making Tommy confused and desperate because of that strange dichotomy of shy and nervous on land, but aggressive and determined in the water. It’s an odd mix, making him all the more intrigued.

They shove and push and Tommy ends up using dirty tricks to get the upper hand after all, pinching Tom’s belly and then pushing his knee up between Tom’s legs to let him know he _could_ hurt but won’t, and forcing Tom up and towards the boat.

It’s not an easy fight but he will fucking win.

Tom only gives in when Tommy’s pushed him against the bow of the boat, using a hand bar to press them chest to chest and his other arm to box Tom in. There’s nothing between them now.

In the water, Tommy Joe could look eye to eye with Tom, but he can’t. Tom’s looking away, breathing hard, determined not to look at him.

“You lose.” Tommy leans forward, whispering right into Tom’s ear. That gets Tom’s attention _real_ fast.

“Fuck you.” But Tom’s not pushing Tommy away, he’s looking at him through long lashes, biting his lip with that fucking ring in it, and it’s catching the light, and Tommy…

He wants it.

He wants to kiss it.

He fucking needs it.

Tommy is aware right now that he’s very, very, very close to doing something that is extremely dangerous to his relationship with Adam. That it would break Adam’s heart.

It would break Tommy’s heart too.

Throwing away years of love, and care, and devotion when he’s never been tempted fucking _once_ for one kid is stupid. Which is why doing this is supposed to be _wrong._

But he fucking wants, and he’s not sure why, but Tom’s bottom lip is full, and it’s tempting Tommy in every fucking way possible. He wants to kiss it, bite it, fucking lick it, and it’s wrong.

He should pull back, say it’s a crappy prank, get back on the boat, get dressed and pretend nothing ever happened. Pass it off as a joke and a laugh, and he _knows_ somehow that Tom would let him play it like that. It would let them both save face, as though they both were playing, even though they’re not. 

But he doesn’t.

And neither does Tom.

And when they kiss, it’s not Adam that Tommy’s thinking of.

It’s not Adam’s hands in his, or on his waist, or Adam’s legs tangling around his as Tom pushes his groin closer to Tommy, and that is definitely Tom’s dread ocks brushing against Tommy’s neck in the water, drifting with the waves.

Tom’s lips taste like salt, and his mouth feels nothing like Adam’s but it’s _different_ and awesome… and ….

Unfamiliar. Tommy’s learning a new kisser, a new person through kissing and it’s fucking insane.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be pressing Tom against the side of the boat, feeling the rail under his hand slippery and cool against the heat his skin, and he shouldn’t be pushing his groin into Tom’s and feeling the interest returned twice over.

It’s not what _should_ be happening.

But it feels amazing.

And Tommy Joe revels in it.


End file.
